Comfortably Numb
by kjewls
Summary: Lydia is an expert at making herself numb . . . numb to the trauma she experienced at the hands of a monster . . .numb to the stares she's been getting in the hallway since her "incident" . . . numb to her boyfriend's abandonment, her friends lies, her loneliness. Now, if she could just stop dreaming about Stiles . . .
1. Chapter 1

"_Where are you taking me? And why are your hands all sweaty?" Lydia groans breathlessly, as Stiles yanks her toward the dark gym._

"_This isn't exactly the time to be concerned about personal hygiene, Lydia. In case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of trying to save your life, right now."_

"_Is this about that weird kanaima thing that Allison was researching?"_

_Stiles stops in his tracks. "You know about the kanaima?" He asks, turning on his heel to face her._

_Lydia blinks nervously, but hopes Stiles doesn't notice. "Of course, I know about the kanaima! What kind of idiot do you think I am?" _

_Stiles takes a step toward Lydia, his hand still gripping tightly around her wrist. "Lydia, I could never think you were a . . . wait . . . who told you? How much do you know?"_

_Lydia smirks. She's played this game before. "I've got a better idea. Why don't you tell me what YOU know about the kanaima? And, then, I'll tell you if you're right."_

_Stiles laughs. "Nice try, Lydia. You might have been able to fool Allison or Scott with that trick, but not me. I knew you were bluffing, the minute you blinked. It's your tell. I've been able to tell whenever you are lying ever since the fourth grade."_

_Then Stiles, stops himself, realizing what that must sound like to her. " I. . . uh . . . hope that doesn't sound too creepy."_

_Dammit! Lydia thinks to herself. So close. Stupid blinking! "It would be creepy . . . except, it's not true. I DO NOT have a tell," she retorts._

"_You totally have a tell!" Stiles says with a grin._

"_I DO NOT!" Lydia repeats, insistently._

"_Sorry . . . but you do. Remember that time in Elementary School, when you . . ." suddenly Stiles entire body stiffens. "It's him!" Stiles whispers, as he slips beneath the bleachers. "Quick, get under here."_

_Lydia looks over her shoulder, and sees precisely no one. Then, she looks at the floor, where Stiles is now sitting with his legs folded beneath him. She crinkles her nose. "I am not going in there! Do you have any idea how much dirt, bacteria, and God knows what else is underneath those bleachers?"_

"_Lydia . . . GET IN HERE, NOWWWW!" Stiles growls._

_Something about the frantic look in Stiles' eyes, and the surprisingly gruff tone of his voice, causes Lydia to obey, in spite of her instincts, and inherent fear of dirt. "I'm just telling you, Stiles Stilinski, you better have a good reason for this. Otherwise, the minute we get out of here, I'm going to make you so sorry you ever . . ."_

_Suddenly, Stiles cups his left hand across Lydia's face, while his right one clamps down on her thigh. Lydia's eyes widen in shock, as she struggles to extricate herself from Stiles' grasp. This, of course, has the unintended consequence of tangling the pair's legs with one another, and causing the unabashedly clumsy Stiles to fall forward, right on top of Lydia. _

"_I . . . uh . . . that wasn't supposed to happen," Stiles whispers lamely, though he can't quite bring himself to move._

_Their faces are inches apart, now . . . his hot breath intermingling with her own, which is still stifled by the pressure of his fingers on her lips. She could feel his heart beating against her chest, and his pulse rising to match her own. She wants to kill him for putting her in this ridiculous situation. In fact, she's about two seconds away from kicking him right in the groin. That is until she sees his eyes . . ._

_Lydia has never really noticed Stiles' eyes before . . . the small flecks of gold intermingled with warm orbs of mocha fudge . . . the uncommonly long lashes . . . the kindness . . . the concern . . . the PASSION. No one has ever looked at Lydia the way Stiles is looking at her now . . . like she's the most exquisitely sexy creature on Earth. Those eyes do something to Lydia. They make her feel things she hasn't felt before. Her face flushes, and her whole body tingles. And before she can stop herself, she chomps down on Stiles' fingers._

"_OWWWW!" Stiles yelps, cupping his hand over his own mouth, when he realizes how loud he's being._

"_Did you just bite me?" He inquires incredulously, as he shakes out his now-sore hand. "You did! You totally bit me! What the heck is with everyone biting each other in this town? So savage! Lydia, I am shocked . . . I just can't . . . I mean, you, of all people . . ."_

"_Stiles?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Shut up," replies Lydia, as she mashes her lips against his own, and snakes her hands underneath the fabric of his Stud Muffin t-shirt . . ._

L_y_dia awakens in a cold sweat. It is the fourth time this week that she's dreamed about Stiles. And the frequency of these forbidden dreams is leaving her increasingly hot and bothered, not to mention frustrated. No matter what she does, she just can't shake him. It's as if Stiles is holding her subconscious kidnapped. What's worse, between her night time dalliances with Stiles, and her daytime hallucinations of Peter Hale, Lydia is quite certain that she is slowly, but surely, becoming certifiably insane.

Running around the woods naked she can handle . . . scribbling crazy notes on the chalkboard in class . . . it happens, sometimes. But Stiles? Goofy, skinny, sarcastic, motor-mouthed, conversation t-shirt wearing, _STILES?_ She can NOT have feelings for him. Not Lydia Martin, the future prom queen / valedictorian / student council president of Beacon Hills High. That's something that just doesn't happen.

Looking at her reflection in the mirror that morning, Lydia comes to two very important decisions. One: She is NOT going crazy. And two: she's going to put a stop to these so-called feelings for Stiles Stilinski, if it's the last thing she does!_  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_I do not have feeling for Stiles. I do not have feelings for Stiles._ Lydia repeats her new mantra in her head, over and over again, as she struts confidently through the halls of Beacon Hills High. _This is going to work. I can do this! I do not have feelings for . . ._

"Hi Lydia!"

"Stiles," Lydia replies matter-of-factly. _Of course, he'd be here . . . testing me. _She thinks to herself.

They stand there staring at one another awkwardly for a few moments, until Lydia finally speaks again. "You're standing in front of my locker," she notes with what she hopes is a complete lack of emotion.

_I do not have feeling for Stiles._

"Oh . . . yeah . . . sorry about that," replies Stiles, his face reddening, as he tries to move out of Lydia's way. "Listen . . . ahhh . . . with everything that's been happening . . . I never really got a chance to apologize to you for not coming back to talk to you that night, when you were in your car, and you were . . ."

"It's fine," Lydia interrupts brusquely. "No big deal. Completely forgotten."

It is a lie, of course. Stiles' unintentional abandonment of Lydia, just when she was ready to finally open up to him, had hurt Lydia more than he knew. But that doesn't matter now, because she is turning over a new leaf. And she does not . . . absolutely not . . . have feelings for Stiles!

"OK," says Stiles, eyeing her with concern. "But . . . I still want you to know that I meant what I said. I think you look beautiful when you cry . . . and I definitely don't think you're crazy. And if you ever want to talk again I . . ."

The look of sincerity in Stiles eyes when he speaks is fast melting Lydia's resolve. She has to look away, so as not to get drawn in to his stare.

_I do not have feelings for Stiles._

She focuses instead on the inside of her locker. Calculus book . . . Chemistry book . . . U.S. History book . . . these are things she understands . . . not like Stiles, who is becoming more of a mystery to her with each passing day.

"You're right, I'm not crazy," Lydia replies resolutely, as she pulls her books from her locker, and slams it closed. "And I wasn't crying. It was just . . . allergies," she concludes, blinking rapidly. _It's her tell, after all._

Stiles smiles, clearly unconvinced. "What are you allergic to? I'm allergic to cats . . . and candy corn! I don't know why I just told you that . . ."

Lydia bites her lower lip, flustered. _Damn Stiles, and his stupid curiosity! And who the heck is actually allergic to candy corn? _"Ahhh . . . new car smell," she fibs, knowing the minute the words escape her lips, how ridiculous they sound.

"Ahhh . . . yes, that pesky new car smell allergy . . . it afflicts us all," Stiles quips.

"Yeah . . . well . . . um . . . bye!" Lydia sputters, as she slings her bookbag over her shoulder, and begins to make her escape.

She feels his hand press against the small of her back, then . . . soothing, comforting, caring. It stops her dead in her tracks. "Lydia . . . are you OK?" He asks gently.

"Yeah, I'm fine! Why wouldn't I be OK?" She answers nervously, focusing intently on the floor.

"I don't know. You just seem a little . . . _jumpy_ . . . frenetic. And I would know, because I'm that way all the time!"

Lydia makes the mistake then, of looking Stiles directly in the eyes. There they are, staring right back at her . . . mocha fudge orbs with flecks of gold. In an instant, memories of last night's dream come flooding back to her . . . the heat of his body against hers, the way his lips felt as they pressed against her own. He is looking at her now the exact same way he looked at her then, right before she . . .

"I'm going to be late for homeroom," Lydia says loudly, before dashing away, leaving Stiles to stare after her, confused.

"But homeroom doesn't start for another ten minutes," replies Stiles, to no one in particular.

_Unrequited love sucks._ He thinks to himself.

If only he knew . . .

"Lydia . . . wait up!" Allison calls after her red-headed friend, as she barrels down the hall.

"Hi," replies Lydia, plastering a smile on her face that she hopes looks genuine.

She notices Stiles standing alone at the other end of the hall, watching them . . .

"Walk with me," Lydia says insistently, pulling Allison down a Stiles-free hallway. "What's up?"

Allison runs her fingers through her hair, like she always does when she's nervous, or has to say something she doesn't want to say. Lydia steels herself for the worst. "I just wanted to thank you for your help in translating that Latin book, last night," Allison begins tentatively, "And for not asking any questions about why I needed to know what was in it. I know from personal experience how much it sucks to have the people you care about keep things from you. And I want you to know that we all really do want to tell you. It's just that Scott and I . . ."

"I know . . . I know," Lydia interrupts, rolling her eyes. "You're in _love_ . . . and it's epic . . . hearts, stars, red balloons, clover, purple horseshoes, and all those other things you find inside the _Lucky Charms_ box."

Allison grins. "Go ahead, make fun. But it's going to happen to you too, one day . . . maybe sooner than you think."

"I doubt it," Lydia grumbles.

_Love isn't exactly my specialty._ She thinks. _I do not have feelings for Stiles._

"Speaking of boyfriends . . ." Allison begins, her expression suddenly becoming serious.

"Here we go . . ." Lydia mutters under her breath.

"I know you and Jackson have . . . a _history_ together. And that things might have gotten a bit . . . _intense_ . . . between the two of you the other night at Scott's house. But I think you should stay away from him . . . not forever . . . just for now, while he's going through this . . . tough time," Allison offers, carefully choosing her words.

_Jackson! _Lydia thinks to herself. All these crazy dreams about Stiles had caused Lydia to completely forget about Jackson . . . popular, athletic, Alpha Male Jackson . . . the Prom King to her Prom Queen.

I mean, sure, he had treated her like total crap, most of the time, and had practically ripped her heart out after her "accident." And yes, he had gotten totally hot and heavy with her that night in Scott's house, only to completely abandon her to go Lord knows where, just moments later, with not so much as an explanation or even a text message.

But not everybody could have the love of her life as her high school boyfriend, like Allison. Some people just dated one another because they "fit" together, in the social scheme of things. That was how it was between Lydia and Jackson . . . always had been . . . always would be.

It was then that Lydia realized that Jackson might be the key to solving all her problems. Dating Jackson again would prove to Lydia's classmates that she wasn't a freak. And more importantly, it would stop her from thinking _and dreaming_ about Stiles.

"Thank you, Allison. You really helped me a lot."

"I did?" Allison asks, her face a question mark.

"You did!" Lydia exclaims, surprising the brunette with an unusually affectionate hug. "You're the best. I've gotta go. See you at lunch!"

And with that, a newly invigorated Lydia dashes down the hall, leaving yet another one of her friends to stare after her in confusion.


	3. Chapter 3

Lydia finds Jackson standing near the entrance to the cafeteria with Danny and a couple other guys from the Lacrosse team. _Here goes nothing._ She thinks, fluffing up her hair, and straightening her skirt, as she approaches the group.

"Hey Lydia," Danny says, giving the redhead a casual wave.

"Hi Danny," Lydia replies cordially.

The other two guys mumble their hellos. Jackson barely acknowledges her presence.

"I need to talk to you," Lydia tells her ex, pointedly ignoring the catcalls of the crowd, as she tugs Jackson into an empty classroom.

Jackson leans against the teacher's desk, arms folded across his chest, looking bored. "You wanted to talk to me, so talk," he says.

There's something different about Jackson, since the last time they were together. I mean, sure, the guy has never exactly been what you would call Mister Emotional. But lately, he just seems so cold and dark. And his eyes, which used to exude smugness and confidence, now appear almost vacant, as if he's looking right through her.

_Not like Stiles' eyes. _She thinks to herself, banishing the thought as quickly as it enters her mind.

"I just want you to know that I forgive you," she says solemnly, holding her hands behind her back to keep them from shaking.

"You _forgive me_," Jackson parrots tonelessly.

"Yes . . . I forgive you . . . for dumping me . . . for trying to hook up with Allison . . . for all those awful things you said to me, after the accident. I forgive you for kissing me at Scott's house, and then leaving me there alone to wonder what I did wrong. I forgive all of it," Lydia concludes.

She's blinking rapidly again. She wonders if Jackson notices, or _cares_ . . .

Jackson ponders this for a moment, silently. "OK," he says finally.

"OK?" Lydia asks incredulously. _An actual apology would have been nice. _She thinks to herself.

"Is that all you wanted to tell me?" Jackson inquires coldly.

There's a voice in Lydia's head that's telling her to "_Run! Get out of there, now_!"

It's Stiles' voice. (No . . . really, it's _actually_ Stiles' voice, because the minute he saw her enter that empty classroom with Jackson, he hid behind the door to listen, and make sure Lydia was OK. But, under the circumstances, surely you can understand why Lydia assumed the voice was coming from her own head.)

Either way, she ignored it. "No, that's not all . . . I also wanted to tell you that . . . I think we should date again."

"NO! OWWW!" (That was the sound of Stiles kicking the door in frustration, and it flying back to hit him in the face.)

"Sure," answered Jackson.

"What?" Lydia asked.

"We'll date again," specified Jackson, with about as much excitement as he would say, "I have to go to the bathroom."

"Oh . . . OK," replied Lydia, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Great."

"Great," repeated Jackson.

Figuring that she should probably do something to cement this decision, Lydia walked over to Jackson and gently kissed him on the cheek. When she did, she could have sworn she heard a strange hissing sound coming from his throat . . . like a man who'd swallowed a lizard . . . _or a kanaima._

_Nah. _She thinks to herself. _Those are crazy thoughts. And I'm NOT crazy._

But still, she suddenly couldn't wait to get out of that room.

"Lydia, wait!" Jackson calls after her.

Lydia stops at the door and turns. Jackson's eyes look different now, beadier and more menacing . . . _not human_. Whereas before he looked and acted like some teenage zombie, suddenly he's all smiles . . . and it's totally creeping Lydia out. "Your parents still do a date night every Saturday, and leave you home alone, right?" Jackson asks, as he traces his teeth with his tongue.

"Yeah, they do," replies Lydia, surprised that Jackson actually remembers that.

"I'll come over, then. We'll have a date night," offers Jackson.

"Awesome," replies Lydia, as she turns and leaves the room.

But it doesn't feel _awesome. _It feels _wrong_. And Lydia can't quite but her finger on why.

"Dammit, Lydia!" Stiles says, the minute she passes out of earshot.

It's times like these when Stiles wishes he had superpowers . . . you know, like everyone else in his social circle . . .

"This has to stop! I say we sit her down, right now. We tell her everything. And we don't let her leave until she agrees not to do this," Stiles rants to Scott and Allison between mouthfuls of onion rings, in the cafeteria.

Allison has never seen Stiles so upset. "Now, I have to ask, is this because Lydia is dating the kanaima, or because Lydia is getting back together with _Jackson_?" She inquires tentatively

Stiles deftly sidesteps the question. "Ugh! You should have seen the way he talked to her," He drops his voice about two octaves to mimic Jackson's, "_We'll have a date night_. He's just so slimy!"

"Actually, he looks more scaly then slimy," Scott jokes.

Stiles tosses an onion ring at his best friend's head.

"Look," Scott begins rationally. "None of us want Lydia anywhere near Jackson. But I think we're looking at this the wrong way. I mean, Lydia is immune to Jackson's venom, right? So, he can't really hurt her. "

"I'm sorry, you've seen that thing, right? I mean, it's like a dentist's worst nightmare. Just because it can't sting her, doesn't mean it won't EAT HER FACE!" Stiles argues, slapping his palm down on the lunch table for emphasis.

"Except, I don't think that the Master will want Jackson to do that," Scott reasons. "Because if he fails, it will only blow his cover with Lydia. Not to mention she's in her parents' house. If something bad happens to her, Jackson is the first place the cops would look. So, _I'm thinking_ that Jackson staying with Lydia will put him out of commission as a threat for a few hours, and gives the three of us time to find the Master. Stop the Master, stop Jackson!"

Allison looks sympathetically at Stiles. "You have to admit, it's a pretty brilliant idea," she offers.

Stiles shakes his head. "It's a TERRIBLE IDEA! Because it doesn't take into consideration the very real possibility that Jackson will decide to tell his Master to F-off, and, then, EAT LYDIA'S FACE!"

Ever the peacekeeper, Allison decides to offer a compromise. "Scott, we don't _all_ need to go out and hunt for the Master, do we? Why don't you and I just go tomorrow night? This way, Stiles can hang around Lydia's house, and make sure she's safe."

"But . . ." Scott begins to pout.

Allison interrupts. "Come on! How would you feel if it was _me_ alone with Jackson? You'd want to do the same thing, wouldn't you?"

Scott sighs, knowing when to admit defeat. "You're right. So, it's settled. Saturday night, Allison and I will search for the Master, and Stiles will be on Love Watch."

Another onion ring hits Scott square in the face.

Stiles smirks. "Sorry . . . I was aiming for that trash can . . . on the other side of the room . . . that is nowhere near you at all."

_It's the morning before her date with Jackson, and Lydia decides to take her dog, Prada, for a walk. When she emerges on her porch, she finds a "present" near her front door. _

"_Stiles?" Lydia inquires._

_He looks like he's been through a war. His hair is a mess. His eyes are red rimmed. And there's just the slightest dab of drool on the neck of his shirt._

"_Did you spend the night out here?" _

"_What? No . . . of course I didn't spend the night here!" Stiles laughs nervously, as he trips over a newspaper, and has to hold on to a nearby wall for balance. "Definitely not. I just got here . . . like two minutes ago."_

"_Well, then would you mind telling me why you are here?"_

"_Don't do it," Stiles pleads, his eyes filled with concern._

"_Don't do what?" Lydia asks, feigning annoyance, despite being touched by the romantic implications of this gesture._

_No guy has ever slept on her porch before._

_Stiles gives her a look like the answer to her question should be obvious, which, of course, it is. "Don't date Jackson again."_

_Lydia takes a bold step toward Stiles, causing her eyes to meet his. "Why shouldn't I?"_

_Stiles tries to stay focused, but his close proximity to Lydia is making him dizzy, and lightheaded. He can smell her strawberry shampoo, and vanilla-scented body wash. "Because . . . he's awful, Lydia. He's crazy. And he's going hurt you again. Can't you see that?"_

_There are those eyes again, mocha fudge with flecks of gold. But Lydia doesn't avoid them this time. Rather, she faces them head on, taking another step toward Stiles, so that the two teens are now inches apart. "I can take care of myself," she says resolutely._

_Stiles gets a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes, as he contemplates the curves of Lydia's face. He can feel the heat rising off her body. When he speaks, his voice sounds husky, and almost breathless. "I know you can," he begins. "But you shouldn't have to. Lydia, you deserve someone who knows how smart, gorgeous, funny, and special you are . . . who treats every moment he spends with you like a gift from Heaven. You deserve someone who will never make you cry, no matter how beautiful you look doing it. You deserve someone like . . ."_

_As if in a trance, Stiles leans in to kiss Lydia. At first, it's gentle and soft, his hands gently exploring the contours of her neck, as if he's experiencing her for the first time. But within moments, passion takes over them both, and their leaning against the front door of Lydia's house, hungrily, and greedily running their hands over ever single part of each other's bodies. Then, despite being out in broad daylight, Lydia boldly lifts her shirt over her head . . ._

"Dammit Stiles!"

Lydia awakens, and tosses a pillow angrily at her wall.

She then rises, and looks out her window at her front porch. It's empty, of course. Lydia groans and shakes her head, trying to fight off the nagging sensation that she just experienced the best kiss she's ever had in her life, and she wasn't even _awake_ during it.

So, it happened again, _obviously_. Another night . . . another forbidden dream. But Lydia will be damned if Dream Stiles messes up her date with Real Jackson!


	4. Chapter 4

There is _definitely _something different about, Jackson.

An hour after Lydia's parents have left the house, she finds him standing on her doorstep, with that same super creepy, menacing, look he had in his eye, back when he had first suggested that the two of them have a date night. "Let's go to your room," he says, the second she opens the front door.

"Umm . . . OK . . . nice to see you too," Lydia quips, as Jackson walks past her up the staircase.

She has no choice but to follow him.

The minute Lydia closes her bedroom door behind her, Jackson cups his hands on either side of her face, and starts kissing her on the mouth, aggressively, hungrily . . . like Stiles was kissing her in the dream, except not like that at all. In her dream, the kisses were all about adoration and romance . . . wanting and _needing_. Jackson's kisses seem more perfunctory and purposeful, like something she read about in biology class . . _. predator and prey_. And it doesn't take a genius to figure out, which one of the two Lydia is in this situation.

"Hey, slow down there, tiger. Don't you want to take your coat off first?" Lydia manages to utter, in the one spare minute, when Jackson's mouth is not glued to her own.

"Why? Isn't this what you want . . . what you've _always wanted_ . . . to be with me?" Jackson says in Lydia's ear.

His voice sounds strange, almost alien. And every "S" sounds exaggerated, almost like his tongue is too big for his mouth. Plus, she's hearing hissing sound again. It's getting louder, with each passing moment.

Lydia stops to think about Jackson's question. _Is this really what she wants?_ A few days ago, she would have yes, absolutely. To be popular and beautiful . . . to date the captain (OK . . . co-captain) of the Lacrosse team . . . it was what _every_ teenage girl wanted . . . _wasn't it_?

So, why was every fiber of her body screaming at her to escape?

_Lydia, you are just being stupid._ She chastises herself. _Life isn't all hearts and diamonds, like it is in your dreams. This is your real, flesh and blood, boyfriend. So, you better get used to it._

Lydia sighs and turns her focus back to the kissing. She hugs Jackson close to her, and reaches her hands up the back of his tight black t-shirt to caress his skin . . . something he'd always seem to enjoy, back when they first started dating. _Wait a minute? Are those scales?_

Lydia tries to address the subject tactfully, which, admittedly, is unusual for her, since she's always been more of a blunt-speaking kind of girl "Sweetie, you really need to start thinking about a more regular moisturizing regimen. Your skin is a little . . . scaly. I have these great lotions that . . ."

All of the sudden, Jackson hisses loudly in her ear, and swipes the back of her neck with his fingernail. Lydia gasps, as she moves her hand to the back of her neck, and finds it slick with blood . . . _her blood. _"Jackson?" She inquires, nervously.

Jackson's entire body stiffens. The moment, he realizes what he's done, his eyes widen and fill with tears. Suddenly, he's the Jackson that Lydia remembers . . . vulnerable, _human_. She remembers that time, freshman year, when he first admitted to her that it was his lifelong dream to find his biological parents. His face then, looked just like it looks now, sad . . . _scared_. It makes her want to comfort him and protect him.

"Hey, Jackson. It's OK. You just got a little over excited. That's all. It's just a scratch. See? I'm fine!"

But when she reaches her hand out, to touch his face, she's shocked to find that it doesn't move at all. In fact, her entire body has been rendered completely immobile. Suddenly, her legs give out from under her, and she falls to the floor. But she doesn't feel herself collapse. She doesn't feel anything at all.

"Jackson!" She says, biting her lip to fight back the tears that are welling up in her eyes. "Something's wrong. I can't move. You have to call an ambulance. Please!"

Jackson looks at her, in horror, his entire body shaking. Suddenly, he's doubled over, but Lydia can't tell whether it's pain or fear that's making him this way . . . maybe a little of both. "I'm so sorry," he whispers, before dashing down the stairs and out of Lydia's house.

"JACKSON! DON'T LEAVE ME! PLEASE! I'M SCARED! JACKSON? SOMEBODY HELP ME!" Lydia cries out, her eyes blurry with tears.

Stiles is pacing around the back of Lydia's house, when he hears Lydia's screams. He's in the front door, up the stairs, and outside Lydia's bedroom, faster than he ever thought was humanly possible. Maybe love is its own kind of superpower.

"Lydia," he says breathlessly, as he takes a giant puff of his inhaler.

"Stiles," Lydia replies, trying in vain to fight back her own tears. "How did you know . . . how did you get in here?"

Stiles smiles, eager to deflect the tenseness of the situation with his usual go-to weapon of sarcasm. "Come on, Lydia. Your hide-a-key? Your parents really need to beef up their security measures. I mean, that big fake looking rock with the key hole in the bottom that your dad bought at Home Depot? Everyone on your block has the exact same one."

Lydia nods, because it's the only thing she can do. "You know, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm actually really glad you're here," she offers.

"Umm . . . thanks . . . I guess?" Stiles replies, jokingly.

It's not until that moment that Stiles realizes that Lydia is topless, or, at least, she might as well be for the damage that Half-Kanaima Jackson did to her shirt, during their recent makeout session. "Woah," Stiles utters lamely, as he obediently averts his eyes. (Though he does take a peek at her through his fingertips once or twice . . . well . . . maybe more than twice.)

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's not pretend like this is the first time you've seen my boobs, OK?"

Stiles blushes ferociously, and gets a stupid grin on his face. Of course, she's right. "Well, yeah, but if you want me to turn away, while you . . . ah . . . step into something less comfortable, I can do that for you," he mumbles.

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Yeah, see, I _would_, except I CAN'T MOVE . . . LIKE . . . AT ALL!"

Stiles stops dead in his tracks. "Wait a minute . . . you're _paralyzed_? But I thought you were immune to the venom. That day in chemistry class, when Derek . . ."

"Um, I have no idea what you're talking about," Lydia interrupts in frustration. "All I know is that I'd really rather not be wheeled in on a gurney to my senior prom. So, if you'd walk your bony little fingers over to a phone, and dial 911, I'd really appreciate it."

But Stiles is still lost in thought. "It doesn't make any sense," he muses.

"STILES! PHONE! DIAL! NOW!" Lydia yelps.

Stiles turns his attention back to Lydia. "Oh yeah, _that_ . . . it's just a reaction to the venom. It should wear off in a couple of hours."

"So, what . . . you're like a _doctor _now?" Lydia retorts.

"No . . . I . . . uh . . . know from personal experience, actually. Listen, it's a really long story," Stiles offers, as he kneels down next to Lydia, and delicately places a shred of her ripped shirt, over her exposed boob.

Lydia notices the gesture, and is grateful for the small bit of dignity Stiles has offered her, under the circumstances. "Well, it seems I suddenly have a lot of time on my hands. So, you might as well tell me everything now."

"Ahh . . . you've got a point there," Stiles says with a smile, as he gently brushes a strand of red hair away from her face. _God, she's beautiful._ He thinks to himself.

Then, Stiles' cell phone rings. It's Scott. _Dammit!_

"Umm . . . hold that thought," he says nervously.

"OK," Lydia replies. "But Stiles?" Lydia calls after him, as he walks to the other end of the room to take the call.

"Yeah?"

"Please . . . um . . . don't leave me. OK?"

Stiles sees the sadness and vulnerability in Lydia's eyes, and, in that instant, falls in love with her all over again. "I won't," he says, resolutely. "I promise."


	5. Chapter 5

"For the _third_ time, she's _not_ immune to the venom, Scott."

Having known Scott McCall since the two were in diapers, Stiles had long ago gotten used to the fact that you usually have to tell him something three times, before it finally starts to sink in . . .

"But how can you be sure?" Scott asks on the other end of the line, obviously still confused.

"Well, let's see . . . she was with Jackson, he scratched her, and now she's not moving . . . I think it's safe to say she wasn't paralyzed by his charm," Stiles quips.

Lydia watches as Stiles paces back and forth near her bed, while clutching his cell phone to his ear. She can tell by his clipped speech, and the apologetic glances he keeps casting her way, that he's extremely eager to get off the phone with Scott . . . eager to be with _her._ _It's actually kind of sweet, s_he thinks. But she _does_ _not_ have feelings for Stiles. _Does she?_

"Well, how long ago did he leave? How far do you think he could have gotten?" Scott inquires, as he rushes toward Allison's car, which she parked two blocks down the street from his house, in order to avoid suspicion.

"_Once again_, I don't know! Clearly, I skipped the chapter on rich teenage asshats turned supernatural psycho killer lizards in the latest issue of _National Geographic_," Stiles replies through gritted teeth.

"Well, wait outside of Lydia's, and we'll come get you," replies Scott, as he slips into Allison's car, mouthing the word "Stiles" to her, as he points to his cell phone.

"Um . . . I'm sorry . . . I can't," Stiles answers.

He locks eyes with Lydia for an extended moment, and then, bashfully looks away.

"Stiles, come on! I know you care about Lydia. But you said, yourself, she'll be fine in a few hours. And this is our chance to track Jackson. He might even lead us to his Master," Scott pleads.

Stiles sighs, and runs his hand through his hair nervously. "I'm sorry, Scott. I just can't leave her like this . . . not again . . . not _this time_. I gotta go."

Stiles walks back toward Lydia. The two then share a few awkward moments in silence, while both try to pretend that Stiles _didn't _just choose her over his best friend . . . over quite possibly _saving the world _from a "supernatural psycho killer lizard_._" Acknowledging this fact would put a lot of unnecessary pressure on both of them.

"So . . .um . . . how are things?" Stiles asks lamely.

His palms are already beginning to sweat. And he's hoping that Lydia doesn't somehow notice.

"Just _peachy_," replies Lydia, as she exhales deeply.

Stiles tentatively kneels down next to her.

"Listen . . . um . . . would you mind not hovering over me like your some crazy cult leader, and I'm your virgin sacrifice?" Lydia inquires, biting her lower lip.

"My _virgin sacrifice_?" Stiles inquires, with a goofy grin.

"Shut up," replies Lydia, rolling her eyes.

But she's smiling. _He _made her smile.

"I . . . uh . . . what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know," Lydia responds. "Lay down, maybe?"

Stiles blinks, as he compulsively scratches an imaginary itch on the back of his neck. "You want me to lie down . . . _next to you_?"

Lydia blushes slightly. "Uhhh . . . yeah, I just . . . I think it will make me feel less . . ."

"Paralyzed?"

"I was going to say 'helpless,' but yes," she admits.

Lydia watches out of the corner of her eye, as Stiles gingerly lies down next to her, their heads, and limbs now inches apart from one another. "Stiles?" She asks.

"Yeah?"

"Are you holding my hand?"

Stiles turns toward her, surprised. "You can feel that?"

"That depends . . . are your hands sweaty?"

Stiles nervously lets go of Lydia's hand and wipes his palm on the front of his jeans.

"Stiles, _I'm kidding_. I can't feel a thing. But it still feels nice. Does that make any sense?"

Stiles nods solemnly. "It makes a lot of sense, actually," he answers, as he reaches for Lydia's delicate fingers, once again. "So . . . um, what do we do now?"

"Now, you start at the beginning, and tell me everything you guys have been keeping from me all this time. Because, I'm smarter than all of you. And if you had come to me from the start like _good friends _would have, we probably all could have saved ourselves a whole lot of trouble," notes Lydia sagely.

Stiles grimaces. "Are you sure? Because I gotta warn you, it's a long . . . crazy . . . and not particularly believable story."

Lydia offers a small, almost imperceptible nod, because it's the only move of assent she's capable of making right now. "Well, I suddenly find myself with a lot of free time on my hands. So spill."

And that's exactly what Stiles does . . .

Meanwhile, not far from Scott's house, Allison and Scott catch sight of something traveling on all fours, a few feet in front of them. It's much too big to be a cat or a wolf. And it has a long tail, so it's definitely not a deer . . .

"Scott, look . . ."

But Allison doesn't need to say anything, because Scott sees it too. She eases up on the gas, so as not to clue the kanaima in to her presence, particularly once she figures out it's destination. "He's going to _my house_," Allison muses out loud, as she squints in the darkness. "Why would a kanaima willingly walk into a house filled with hunters?"

Scott takes a deep breath, and turns to face Allison. "There are only two possible reasons, and you aren't going to like either of them."

_It's better to tell her fast._ He thinks. _Like ripping off a band-aid . . ._

"One reason is that an Argent is the kanaima's next target," Scott begins tentatively. "The other reason . . . ."

" . . . is that an Argent is the kanaima's master," Allison concludes morosely.

Scott reaches over and gently runs his fingers through Allison's hair. "Listen, you don't have to . . ."

"Yes, I do," Allison replies, her voice filled with fiery determination, as she pulls over the car on the side of the road, and steps out into the blackness of the night.

When she returns, she's carrying a bow in one hand, and a quiver filled with arrows in the other. "Let's go," she says.

Scott has no choice but to follow . . .

Back at Lydia's house, Stiles fills Lydia in on everything that's happened these past few months. He tells her about Scott and Derek. He tells her about Peter Hale, and the Argents. He tells her about Jackson, and what they know so far about the kanaima.

Stiles is surprised by how easy he's finding it to talk to Lydia, when, just a few months ago, the simple act of asking her to borrow a pencil in class could leave him thoroughly and completely tongue tied. As it turns out, the redhead is an exceptionally good listener. She laughs at the parts where she's supposed to laugh (like the part about Scott and Allison with the condoms). And often figures things about, about two or three steps before Stiles and Scott did themselves, back when the events were happening in real time. For example, Lydia pinpoints Peter Hale as the serial killing Alpha, almost immediately upon his first mention in the story. (Then again, she kind of had some unpleasant _personal _experiences, in that regard, which might have helped her make that deduction.)

Then, Stiles gets to the part where Derek tries to feed venom Lydia in chemistry class, to see whether she's the kanaima. "He made me EAT venom? EWWW! You know, when I get done with this whole paralysis thing, I'm going to kill that bastard. I don't care how good he looks in those tight black t-shirts and stupid leather jackets."

Stiles is both amused and annoyed by Lydia's remark. On one hand, the idea of the petite dainty Lydia causing bodily harm to Big Bad Wolf Derek causes Stiles more joy than he'd like to admit. On the other hand, he could have really done without the comment about the tight black shirts, and the leather jackets . . .

"But the thing we still don't understand, is why you weren't affected by the venom then, when you're clearly affected by it now," Stiles muses, eager to change the subject away from Derek's "hotness."

"Oh, that's easy," Lydia replies casually, stifling a yawn, as she stares up at the same dull pink ceiling she's been looking at for hours.

She's suddenly starting to feel extremely tired . . .

Stiles turns his body toward her, and leans his head up against his palm. "Wait, you _know_ why you weren't affected by the venom?"

Lydia nods sleepily. "Listen, I can't tell you why I didn't turn into a nasty hairy wolf, when that Peter guy bit me. But I can tell you with 100% certainty why I didn't respond to the venom."

Stiles leans forward intently. "Why?"

"Because I ingested it _orally_. Don't any of you goons pay attention in science class? Everyone knows that saliva neutralizes venom. The poison only works if it somehow gets into your bloodstream through an open wound, like a scratch . . . _or a bite_."

Stiles nods appreciatively, vaguely remembering hearing something about this on the nature channel. "But that still doesn't explain why Jackson reacted the way _he_ did, when Derek fed _him_ the venom."

Lydia yawns openly now. Her eyes begin to flutter, as she tries to stay awake. This causes Stiles to yawn as well. He becomes aware, for the first time, of how comfortable and soft Lydia's carpet is.

"Let me tell you something weird about Jackson. He used to get off on the nature channel. Sometimes he'd make me watch it with him, before we . . . _you know_."

Stiles crinkles his nose, disgusted, "Now, that's an image I'm probably never going to be able to get out of my head for as long as I live. So, thanks for that."

"You're welcome," replies Lydia serenely, as sleep starts to tug at the corners of her consciousness.

She can feel it pulling her under . . .

"But I don't understand what that has to do with . . ."

"Stiles, Jackson knows about venom. He was _obviously_ faking it," Lydia concludes, allowing her heavy eyelids to fall closed once and for all.

"Of course, he was faking it! That makes perfect sense, Lydia . . . Lydia?"

If it is at all possible, Stiles thinks that Lydia looks even more beautiful asleep than awake. He finds himself hypnotized by the sight of her long eyelashes, her pink cheeks, and the way she smiles ever so slightly in her sleep, like she's in the midst of an exceptionally good dream. Stiles leans over, brushes a strand of hair from Lydia's forehead, and places a gentle soft kiss right between her closed eyes. "Stiles," Lydia whispers amorously in her sleep, just moments later.

But Stiles doesn't hear it, because he's fallen asleep too . . .


	6. Chapter 6

Moisture on her palms . . .

It is the first thing Lydia Martin notices when she wakes up, disoriented and bleary-eyed on the floor of her bedroom. _But why is she on the floor? And why is her $200 cashmere sweater ripped to shreds?_

Then, it all comes surging back to her . . . her "date" with Jackson . . . the stalker, serial killer way he'd acted, throughout it . . . the way her neck felt when he scratched her . . . the way _she_ felt when she crumbled to the ground, not feeling anything at all. Then, she remembers Stiles, and how safe he made her feel, in spite of everything. She remembers the way he stayed with her throughout the whole horrible ordeal, and how she fell asleep with her hand in his sweaty palm.

_His sweaty palm_ . . . the very same _sweaty palm_ she's running her fingers across right now . . .

"I can move," Lydia says out loud, as she tentatively wiggles her toes, and stretches her arms out in front of her.

A mixture of relief and elation washes over her, as she beams over at the still sleeping Stiles, unable to remember the last time she felt _this happy._ Mere hours ago she was completely paralyzed, and feared she might stay that way for the rest of her life. And now, she feels perfectly _normal,_ almost as if the whole thing never happened . . .

But it _did_ happen, _didn't it?_

It _had_ to have happened, because Stiles is here, sleeping next to her on the floor of her bedroom . . . except . . .

Stiles is _always_ next to her, in her dreams.

It's gotten to the point where Lydia can't tell whether she's dreaming or awake anymore. And that is a _Very Bad Thing _. . .

Back when Lydia and Jackson were still dating, he took her to see that Leonardo DiCaprio movie . . . the one where Leo and the girl from _Juno _would go into people's heads and manipulate their dreams. In that movie, each of the characters had their own _totem_, some kind of object that could tell them whether they were dreaming or awake. Leonardo DiCaprio's totem was a spinning top.

But Lydia didn't _own _a spinning top. So, how the heck was she supposed to know whether she was dreaming or not? Then, it came to her . . .

_Stiles' lips._

Every single dream she had lately ended with her kissing Stiles. She would start kissing him, and just before things got hot and heavy between them, everything would turn to black, and Lydia would awaken. It was like she was trapped in some "T for Teen" rated show, whose censors never let her get past second base . . .

So, that is what Lydia has to do, she decides. She has to kiss Stiles, and see where it takes her. She'll kiss him, and then either she'll wake up, or she won't. It is rather scientific, really. And it has absolutely nothing to do with her having feelings for Stiles. (She _doesn't_!)

_Here goes nothing. _Lydia thinks to herself, as she leans over, and presses her lips against the still- Sleeping Stiles, prying them open ever so gently with the tip of her tongue. "Lydia," Stiles murmurs, with his eyes still closed, almost as if he might be in the midst of a dream himself.

_A dream within a dream. This really is like that Leonardo DiCaprio movie. _Lydia thinks to herself.

Then, Lydia does something she's never done before. She _stops_ thinking, and just _acts . . . _acts on the impulses and desires that have been driving her _literally_ crazy for weeks. Cupping Stiles' face with her hands, Lydia pulls him closer to her, so that she can feel his surprisingly taut stomach press against her own.

Sleeping or not, Stiles is an exceptional kisser. Within seconds, his right hand is massaging her back, while his left is exploring her neck, teasing the sensitive area behind her ears, and running his fingers through her hair. And those lips! Lydia has never experienced lips so soft and pliable. . . lips that seem tailor-made to kiss her own.

Stiles body bucks up against her own, and Lydia lets out a soft moan. "I don't care if I'm dreaming, I never want to wake up," Lydia whispers in Stiles' ear.

"I don't want to wake up either," replies Stiles, his voice sounding raw and husky, even to his own ears.

Then, suddenly, _he does_ wake up . . . his eyes wide like saucers, as they come face-to-face with a flesh and blood Lydia. And Stiles is _thrilled._ But he's also really confused. "Umm . . . Lydia, did you just rape my face with your tongue, while I was sleeping?"

The minute the words escape Stiles' lips he knows he shouldn't have said them.

"Oh god!" Lydia exclaims, covering her mouth with her hand. "I'm a total slut . . . a slut and a _rapist."_

Stiles smirks and holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "It's OK. I liked it . . . A LOT . . . _so much_, actually. You have no idea how much! I'm just . . . a little surprised, is all."

Now, Lydia is pacing back and forth across her room, her head in her hands. "You must think I'm crazy," she mutters. "Heck, _I think_ I'm crazy! It's just that I kept having these dreams . . . where you and I would . . . _you know_ . . . and then, I remembered that Leonardo DiCaprio movie where . . ."

"Inception?" Stiles asks brightly.

"Yes! That's the one!" Lydia replies excitedly, forgetting for a moment the awkwardness of the situation.

"I loved that movie, especially the part where the building folds in on itself, and Leonardo DiCaprio's character says . . . wait, I think I missed something very important here . . . did you just say that you've been having _dreams_ about kissing me?" Stiles asks, his mouth forming the shape of an "O."

"You have dreams about me too!" Lydia sputters, pointing accusatorily at Stiles.

"Of course, I do," admits Stiles, shrugging his shoulders. "I've been in love with you since before my parents took the training wheels off my bike. I don't think that's exactly new information. But that doesn't explain why _you're_ dreaming about kissing me."

"I . . . I . . . I should go," Lydia says frantically, turning toward her bedroom door.

"Lydia . . . you _live _here," Stiles explains quite rationally, a devilish grin on his face.

"OK, you're right, _you_ should go," Lydia says nodding resolutely.

Stiles blinks trying to hide the hurt and disappointment on his face, as he rises from his position on Lydia's floor. "Do you _really_ want me to leave?" He asks tentatively.

"Yes! No . . . ugh, I don't know," admits Lydia pitifully.

Stiles gingerly sits down on the edge of Lydia's bed, and waits . . .

After a few moments of silence, Lydia composes herself enough to face Stiles. "Listen, what you did for me last night . . . the way you stayed with me, when I was . . . I don't know _anyone_ else who would do that for me, not with the awful way I usually treat you. I just . . .you _saved _me. And I can't thank you enough," she concludes, as she sits down on the bed next to him.

"You're welcome," replies Stiles.

He can feel his ears burning, and knows that he's probably blushing something fierce right now.

"I know I probably don't deserve you as a friend," Lydia continues, looking down at her hands. "But I'm really glad I have you as one."

Lydia can feel Stiles eyes' boring into her right now, searching for _something_. But she can't quite bring herself to look at him. She fears that if she does, she might start to cry again, or do something much worse . . .

"Is that what we are, Lydia . . . _just friends_?" Stiles inquires, his head tilted charmingly to the side.

"Yes . . . that's what we are," replies Lydia, though her voice wavers a bit when she says it, and this gives Stiles the courage to say what he says next.

"Friends who . . . have dreams about kissing one another . . . and who sometimes _actually_ kiss one another," Stiles continues, as he leans ever so slightly closer to Lydia, so that she can no longer avoid his eyes.

Lydia makes the mistake of looking up then . . . up into those mocha fudge puppy dog eyes . . . eyes that are filling with caring, kindness, and a passion for her, that makes her whole body tingle with need. Those eyes are the rabbit hole to Wonderland, and she's Alice . . . falling, far, hard and _fast_ into the abyss. "It was an accident . . . it won't happen again," Lydia whispers, as Stiles moves even closer to her.

"Of course not, because you don't have any romantic feelings for me at all," Stiles responds evenly.

Their faces are inches apart now . . . so close that Stiles notices a small bead of perspiration slide down the nape of Lydia's neck.

_For the moment, he can't imagine anything sexier than that . . ._

"Absolutely none," replies Lydia, as she grabs Stiles face to her own, and kisses him hungrily, greedily, and amorously, pushing him down on the bed roughly with the base of her palm.

_One thing is for sure, they are both Wide Awake now . . ._

Meanwhile, over at the Argent house, the kanaima has just walked through the front door, which Allison was quite certain was locked when she left. It saunters into the kitchen, like it owns the place, and waits . . .

Allison shoulders her bow and arrow, and rushes to follow it. But Scott blocks her entrance.

"Scott, _my family_ is in there," Allison pleads, trying to move around him.

"I know," replies Scott solemnly, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "And I promise you, I . . . _we_ won't let anything happen to them. But this is our only chance to catch the Master. And if we go in there, guns blazing, I feel like we never will."

Allison rolls her eyes. "I'm not going to go in there 'guns blazing.' I just want to shoot it in the leg a few times. You know, neutralize the threat."

"But what if you miss?" Scott wonders.

Allison smiles. "Honey, haven't you learned by now? I never miss."

Scott smirks, and shakes his head. "OK, but what if the Master is another kanaima like Jackson, and your shooting at its 'slave' or whatever, causes it to go all Villain from a Spiderman Movie Crazy on your parents."

Allison considers this for a second. "Good point. Fortunately, I have a Plan B."

"You do?" Scott asks, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Allison walks around the side of the house toward the kitchen window, which she has cleverly started to leave slightly open, ever since she's been banned from seeing Scott. (After all, it's a heck of a lot easier climbing through a one-story window into her kitchen, than through a two-story window into her bedroom.) The young hunter than picks up a garden hose, lying on the floor, and aims it at the gap in the window.

"You said the kanaima was afraid of water, right?" Allison muses.

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, I know for a fact that_ Jackson_ can swim," replies Allison with a grin, as she turns on the hose, and aims at the kanaima, who screeches horribly, as it falls to the ground.

"My god, it's like the Wicked Witch from _Wizard of Oz_," Scott exclaims.

Two seconds later, a very wet and naked Jackson is lying on the floor, incredibly confused.

"Allison, you are a genius!" Scott admits, patting his girlfriend on the back.

"Ah, see, and here I thought you were just dating me because I'm good in bed," Allison replies with a wink.

It's then that Gerard Argent walks down the steps, and into the kitchen.

"Well, Grandpa is in for quite a surprise," Scott jokes.

Except, Gerard doesn't seem surprised at all . . .

"Ahh . . . ahh . . . Principal Argent, I don't know . . . I can explain I . . . I should go," rambles naked Jackson, as he dashes for the door, trying in vain to cover his "man parts" as he moves.

Gerard Argent then places both of his hands on Jackson's back and turns the younger man to face him. It's _beyond_ creepy. "What's the hurry, Jackson? Stick around and chat with me for a while. Besides, you look tired, you should _close your eyes._"

Funny thing . . . Jackson wasn't feeling at all tired before, but now he's dead on his feet. He closes his eyes, and falls to the floor. The kanaima, however is now wide awake . . .

Exhausted, and exceptionally happy, Stiles and Lydia are lying in one another's arms, in various states of undress, beneath the pale pink comforter on Lydia's ridiculously comfortable bed. Half asleep, Lydia is lazily tracing the freckles on Stiles' chest with the tips of her fingers, when she hears his phone vibrate on the floor beneath them.

Stiles closes his eyes, hoping he can make the phone stop vibrating with the power of his mind. It doesn't work. "Aren't you going to get that?" Lydia inquires.

"Um . . . no?" Stiles says, looking quizzically at Lydia.

All Lydia has to do is give him one stern look, and he's off the bed and kneeling by his phone. It's a text message. And when Stiles sees it, his face goes white as a ghost. Quickly, he starts to collect his clothing from the floor. "What's the matter?" Lydia asks, rising from the bed herself.

"Uh . . . nothing. It's ah . . . just my dad. I'm actually grounded so ah . . ." he fibs, gulping exaggeratedly, as he tries to avoid Lydia's eyes.

"Seriously? You are _seriously _going to lie to me NOW, after everything that's happened between us," Lydia scolds, folding her arms across her chest.

Stiles looks down guiltily at the clothes strewn floor. "I was kind of planning on it, yes."

But he hands Lydia the phone, anyway. The text message is from Scott. It reads. "Gerard Argent is the Kanaima's Master. 911."

Lydia is dressed and tugging Stiles toward the door, before he even gets both legs back into his jeans. "Come on, let's go save our friends from Allison's crazy grandpa," she demands.

"Yes, ma'am," replies Stiles with a smirk, as the two rush down the stairs together.

Yeah, Stiles' hands are still sweaty. Lydia's hair is looking far from perfect right now. They both are suffering from a pretty bad case of morning mouth. And, let's face it, battling her ex-boyfriend, i.e. the psycho killer lizard thing, and some evil old dude, isn't exactly Lydia's idea of the perfect first date. In short, Lydia's reality with Stiles is NOTHING like her dreams.

It's _much, much better_ . . .

The End?


End file.
